


Most Needed and Least Expected

by honeycakes



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Fertility Issues, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture, Hobbits, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeycakes/pseuds/honeycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be a dwarf in the Third Age of Middle Earth was a lucky thing indeed. But after a fiery battle leaves the dwarves facing an uncertain future, a quest is born. A quest to ensure the survival of the proud Dwarvish race, a quest to prove the wisdom of a wizard, and a quest which will lead into an unusual adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was well known, to most living in the Third Age of Middle Earth, that the true source of power in the land was the dwarves.

 

The years before the great spell of peace across all the lands, had been years of terror and turmoil. Though the evil Lord Sauron had been defeated, lands, destroyed by battles and quite suddenly turned to freedom, fought bitterly for power, overcome by greed. The world became one of a different sort of danger. Everyone became mistrustful. It was not safe to travel at night, and as towns were raided, each race turned to hoarding and guarding their land and goods. All trade stopped. Goods were clung to. Those who could tend crops hid away their corn. Those gifted in hunting locked away their meat and pelts. The whole of Middle Earth was starving, living in fear of life beyond their borders.

 

It was in the midst of this terror that the dwarves rose up. They began exporting metal goods, armour, jewellery, kitchen-wares, all sorts of things, sending down great loads of iron and silver into the city of Dale. A thick line of ponies came down from the mountain, laden in sacks and crates and parcels. This first great shipment came free of all charges, but with the request that any goods which could not be used by the people of the city be sent out to other towns and villages in the surrounding areas, and traded. Very soon, every man, woman and child in Dale found themselves with new brass scales, beautiful pans for baking, even delicate hair clips and beads, dotted with precious stones. But there was still much to go around. The trading began cautiously. One lone man loaded up a horse with muffin tins, chain-mail, nails and necklaces, and visited a nearby town. He was regarded with fear, but after some firm reassurances, he was sent back home, all metal unloaded from his horse and replaced with sugar, herbs, teas, spices, and even some chocolate. Following that successful trip, he once more loaded up his horse, as did his neighbour, and they left Dale together, before branching off down different roads. When they met again on the road home the next morning, they compared new packages. One horse was weighed down with meat, big slabs of cheese, even a couple of fine pelts. The other carried a lighter load of bulbs, seeds, and young plants, packed carefully with rich soil. Over the next handful of months the men of Dale ventured out further and further still, so that when the dwarves lead their ponies down the mountain once again half a year later, they were able to trade themselves, giving out their boxes of nails and trowels and cutlery sets and receiving great fat beeswax candles and plump little sheep in return. The change did not occur overnight, and it did not come without a few small battles and broken limbs, but over the course of the next couple decades, Middle Earth turned a corner, becoming rich and healthy once more. And everyone knew who was to be thanked for the new age of prosperity. Dwarves were treated with a great deal of respect and adulation wherever they wandered, and it wasn't long before they found themselves rising above the other races. To be a dwarf in the Third Age of Middle Earth was a lucky thing indeed.

 

A great tragedy, however, occurred some time after the wealth of the dwarves had begun accumulating. Rumours of their treasure in the mountain had attracted the attention of a huge fire-drake; Smaug the dragon. The horrible winged beast had flown to Erebor, in a bloody attempt to savage the city below and lay claim to the gold himself. Had it not been for the keen eyes of a young dwarf who had been watching an advancing thunder storm, the dwarves would have had no warning at all. A horrible five days and nights of fighting ensued. Homes were burned to the ground, and the great fire in the trees cast a huge dancing light which shone for days before it could be extinguished. When at long last the beast had been felled, the dwarves congregated outside of their home to count the dead and assess the damage. They were shocked and horrified to find that a third of their people had been killed. Among the slain was their leader, King Thror, whose head had been torn right from his shoulders. But this, while horrible indeed, was not the greatest tragedy to be discovered.

 

A great number of the dead were dwarf women, who, it was well known, possessed great strength and sharp eyes, making them keen and ruthless fighters. There were now less than fifteen dwarf women living under the mountain. Of them, one was but a child, another was very old indeed, and three were badly wounded. It was a tremendous blow to the dwarves. It was notoriously difficult for dwarf women to get pregnant, which is why communities which were blessed with many females would often send them off to different kingdoms in an attempt to keep their species flourishing. For so many women to be killed all at once- It was a tragedy to be sure. After an acceptable period of mourning, King Thrain, son of Thror, sent out delegates from Erebor to other great dwarf strongholds, sharing with them their situation, and requesting immediate assistance. To his dismay, he did not receive the assistance he so desperately needed; instead, he was sent a large number of messages, each one explaining that, unfortunately, there were no women to be spared. Khazad-Dum had experienced a destruction of its own, during which many lives had been lost. From the Grey Mountains, there came news of a great plague which had spread throughout the colony, killing all those it touched. The responses all came back with similar, grim line: Women are in short supply. Erebor is on its own. Unsurprisingly, this news caused a great panic in the mountain. But none panicked as well as King Thrain. He took to pacing around the throne room, eyes darting around and fingers twitching agitatedly. At meals, he ate little, and not even the reassuring words of his son could comfort him. Sick with grief, he continued this way for many months, wasting away slowly. After some time, he became unable to leave his bed, and his son was given control of the kingdom until the King was well enough to resume his duties. One evening, head full of fog and fear, Thrain pulled himself from under his many blankets, and took to pen and parchment one last time. He wrote a quick message, and ordered it be sent off at once. The next morning, when his son arrived to share news from the colonies, it was to find King Thrain, dead at his desk, a worried frown still creasing his brow.

 

Thorin was devastated. With no time to properly mourn the passing of his father, he was crowned King Under the Mountain. The dwarves under his rule looked to him, clearly hopeful, though none seemed particularly optimistic. To his merit, King Thorin exhausted every option he could think of. He read every page of dwarvish history he could find, searching for a solution. He sent Balin, his most trusted right hand, with a small group of guards, to request aid from Thranduil, the elf King. He returned with medicine, to tend the wounded, but the elf King, despite his deep sadness felt for the plight of the dwarves, knew of no way to assist them in creating fertility in their race. For a year, Thorin did his best to protect the females, who were set immediately with the task of bearing children, but not a babe was born, despite the best efforts. All hope seemed lost.

 

It was a bright, blue morning in November, when a tall stranger on a white horse was spotted riding toward Erebor. Word passed quickly through the stone halls, and soon every dwarf under the mountain was muttering about it. Dwarves appeared around the entrance to frown at the stranger, though if he noticed he said nothing about it. The stranger was tall, even for a man, with a long white beard and a large beaky nose. He wore heavy grey robes, with a tall, pointy hat. In his hand, he held what appeared to be a gnarled tree branch, with a smooth stone shining at the top. He walked into Erebor with great purpose, and swept determinedly along the passages as though he knew exactly where he was going. The dwarves all frowned at him suspiciously as he passed, but as he seemed so familiar with their mountain, all assumed he was a friend. After some time, the tall man strode into the throne room, banging his staff against the ground, and dropping into a short bow. He greatly startled Thorin, who had been in counsel with Balin.

 

“Greetings to you Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” announced the tall man in a deep voice which rumbled into all the corners of the room. “I am Gandalf the Grey, and I am at your service.” Thorin rose from the throne and gave a deep bow, his right hand pressed to his heart.

 

“And I, at yours. Greetings to you, Gandalf. I have heard much about you from my father,” Thorin said, straightening. “What brings you to Erebor?”

 

“I have come, for I was called,” replied Gandalf, and he pulled a thick, somewhat crumpled piece of paper from somewhere in his robes. “Your father sent me this message, and I have come as quickly as I was able. If I may, I would like to speak with him.” Thorin's face fell. He very quickly straightened, his face going blank.

 

“I'm afraid you've come too late, Gandalf. My father passed away some time ago.” Gandalf gave a great sigh, and he leaned against his staff.

 

“My condolences, your majesty,” he said after a moment. “I knew he had fallen ill, however, I suppose I didn't expect the sickness to spread so quickly.” Thorin did not reply. Gandalf thumped his staff gently against the stone floor. “Still, perhaps, in light of the situation, you could spare a moment to inform me of your plight? Your father's message has left me with many questions.”

 

“Certainly,” replied Thorin. They walked together through the halls of Erebor, Thorin sharing the fate of his people with a heavy heart. By the time the tale had been told, Gandalf was shaking his head wearily.

 

“Dreadful business. Truly dreadful. And the other kingdoms cannot help?” Thorin snorted.

 

“The other kingdoms are facing their own problems. You are a friend of the dwarves, Gandalf. Surely you understand how difficult it is for us to reproduce, even in the best of times?” Gandalf nodded gravely. And then he frowned, and stopped walking. Thorin, arching a brow, turned to face him.

 

“Perhaps there is a way...” grumbled Gandalf, his brow furrowed. He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and gave Thorin a small smile. “Forgive me, it has been a long journey, and I am afraid my mind is not working as clearly as one might hope. Perhaps you could indulge me a moment longer? Preferably over a bit of supper, it has been a while since my last meal.” Thorin nodded, and not long after, he, Balin and Gandalf were sitting down to a fine meal of roast goose, tender pork cutlets, potatoes cooked with butter, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes. The wizard ate much, and ate quickly. When the food was finished, and more wine had been poured, Gandalf leaned forward with a stern look on his face.

 

“And now, my friends, to business. I have thought about your situation, and I believe I may have a solution, though I am sure you will not be pleased with it.” Balin and Thorin frowned in unison.

 

“Mr Gandalf, a solution of any kind would be most welcome, as we have yet to think of one ourselves,” said Balin, giving the wizard a tight smile. Gandalf sighed, and nodded.

 

“Your people are at risk of dying out. You must begin having children immediately, if you are to have any hope of keeping the proud race of dwarves alive. However, your women, though strong, seem unable to bear young. Therefore, mad as it may sound, I believe the only possible solution is to seek assistance from another race.”

 

This announcement was met with silence as Thorin and Balin regarded the wizard, both looking rather alarmed. Gandalf sat back as his words were considered, and drank some more of his wine.

 

“Mr Gandalf,” said Balin after a long moment. “Let me be sure I understand you. You are suggesting that we look to couple with outsiders? With women of other races?” Gandalf nodded.

 

“You understand me perfectly.” Thorin's face darkened, and he gave a sharp shake of his head.

 

“Gandalf, what you are suggesting is not possible,” he said. “Not only is it highly unlikely that another race would be capable of bearing our young, the idea goes against everything it means to be a dwarf.” Gandalf gave a small irritated huff, pulling out his pipe and packing it.

 

“Firstly, I will say that while tricky to negotiate, I believe the right people could give you children. It may not be easy to convince them, however, it would be far easier than waiting for your own women to become fertile. And secondly, Master Thorin, unless you take some rather drastic steps, there will no longer _be_ any dwarves. Would you prefer to watch your people die out?” A look of anger crossed Thorin's face. The young King stood, and began pacing, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

 

“And who would you have us turn to? Men? Elves? Would you see our men dishonoured so, standing before women so foreign in design, and asking them to- to _rut_ with us, as though we were desperate pigs, crawling through the mud?” Gandalf now scowled, blowing out a bubbling stream of smoke. He rose to his feet, seeming much taller in his irritated state.

 

“I see now that I have come to help those who do not wish to be saved. Very well. I will remain close by for a time. When you feel ready to truly face the situation at hand, do inform me.” Without another word, the wizard left the dwarves, and it was reported that he left Erebor, still frowning and muttering to himself. Thorin spent much of the day fuming, while Balin returned to his rooms, thoughtful.

 

The following month was a sombre one under the mountain. Despite the wonderful harvests, the food flowing through Erebor, the money coming to them in great trunks in exchange for axes, nails, weaponry, and in one occasion an elegant crown for a princess in a far off land, the dwarves were weighed down by their melancholy, and filled with a sense of doom. Thorin watched his people suffering. The females in their number seemed shrivelled, weak, flattened by the overwhelming pressure to bear children, to bring more little girls into life. Bakers and toy-makers went into a creative frenzy, attempting to soothe the fear with sweets and clever toys, but nothing seemed to help. Finally, one night toward the end of the month, Balin came to Thorin's chambers, a grim look on his face. A woman who had long been suffering from wounds received in battle had passed away. The entire kingdom was mourning her passing, and their fate. Thorin paced around his chambers with a heavy heart, as Balin poured out two goblets of wine. They drank in silence, both pondering the situation. As the sun began to rise the next morning, Thorin set down his wine, a hard look in his eyes.

 

“Call the wizard back,” he said through gritted teeth. Balin looked up in surprise, but was wise enough to remain silent. In less than an hour, Gandalf was seen walking the road back to Erebor. Shortly, he was seated once again across from Thorin and Balin.

 

“Master Gandalf,” greeted Thorin with a short bow. “It is good of you to come. We parted on a bad note when last we met, you honour us greatly with your presence.” Gandalf gave a deep nod of his own. The dwarves looked at each other, considering, and Balin turned to the wizard with a small, tense smile.

 

“We have considered your suggestion, and would like to hear it explained in more detail,” he said. Gandalf nodded, sitting back in his chair, looking back and forth between the dwarves.

 

“When last we spoke, I seem to remember neither of you being particularly keen on my plan, however, I will attempt to illustrate it more clearly. I believe it wise for you to consider seeking assistance from another race in matters of coupling. Now. As I have said, it will be a difficult matter to negotiate. And as you have pointed out, your majesty, seeking females from the Men and the Elves would not be wise choices, as they are so incredibly different from yourselves. However, there is another option.” He leaned forward, a serious look on his face.

 

“Hobbits.”

 

Balin and Thorin looked at each other. Hobbits? Balin frowned at the wizard.

 

“Apologies, Mr Gandalf, but we know little of hobbits.” Gandalf nodded.

 

“They are a race, not too different from yourselves, though they may be shorter and softer. They are a peaceful people, who have a great love of food, music and gardening. They live far West of here, in The Shire. Hobbits are a gentle bunch, and they keep mostly to themselves, but if they mark you as a friend, you can expect their welcome and loyalty for as long as you are acquainted.” Gandalf was smiling fondly. “I have visited the Shire many a happy time, and am lucky to have a great number of friends there.” Thorin was frowning thoughtfully. Peaceful people. Fond of food, smaller than dwarves, gardeners? This much lined up well with what he knew of hobbits, the meek hill-dwellers who had introduced pipe weed to the people of Dale. Balin looked equally thoughtful. Gandalf took advantage of the silence and continued speaking.

 

“They are a lovely folk. And where they are similar to dwarves in height and in shape, they are quite different when it comes to child-bearing,” he said, and chuckled. “Where you are limited in your offspring, they have rather an over-abundance. It is entirely common, and in fact expected, for a hobbit woman to raise upwards of five little faunts in her lifetime. I know one family quite well, which has produced eighteen hobbits in the past fifteen years, and they show no sign of stopping.” Thorin and Balin absorbed this information with wide eyes and raised brows. Gandalf smiled behind his beard at their bewildered faces, and pulled a pipe from his cloak.

 

“Well, Gandalf, it is certainly an intriguing thought. And I have no doubt that the hobbits are every bit at... Gifted, perhaps, as you say. However, there are some points which must be discussed. For example, how would their King react to our proposition, let alone the hobbits themselves? Surely, they would not be pleased by the thought,” Balin said frowning. Gandalf's eyes crinkled into a smile as a wreath of smoke bloomed from the end of his pipe.

 

“Ah, yes, of course you wouldn't know. You see, hobbits have got a much different ruling system than you dwarves. Hobbits don't have a King, as they prefer to handle things themselves. Now, there is a council, made up of the heads of each of the main families. And that council does assist in difficult situations, casting votes, finding solutions. But they have never had a ruling class, because- Well, because one has never been needed.” He paused for a few puffs. “Now, as for you putting forth a proposition. I don't believe one will be necessary.” He shrugged. Balin and Thorin waited for further explanation, but the wizard seemed to be finished speaking. Thorin levelled a hard look at him.

 

“You think we ought to demand their assistance in repopulating Erebor? Gandalf, even a lover of peace would be likely to take up arms at such behaviour.” Gandalf huffed, shaking his head.

 

“No, I don't think you should demand anything. Master Thorin, have you forgotten what it is we are discussing? This is not a move to enslave hobbit women so they will give you children. And this is not a business contract to wave under their noses. No, this is building relationships! This is- This is _love_ , my dear dwarves.” He chuckled at the uncomfortable look being shared between Thorin and Balin. “I am not suggesting you go to the Shire and begin dragging women to your beds. No, I suggest that you get a team together, a company of dwarves. And then, quite simply, go to the Shire and get to know the hobbits for yourselves. The hobbits are loving creatures, and they are incredibly easy to become fond of.” Thorin was frowning, and Balin was shaking his head. Gandalf sighed.

 

“Have some measure of trust in me, Master Thorin, Master Balin,” he said. “I would not lead you astray on matters of such importance.”

 

Balin gave Thorin a long look. His brow was furrowed, he looked uncertain. “Thorin, it is a mad plan,” he said in a low voice. Thorin sighed, shaking his head, and ran a hand over his beard.

 

“Aye, it is a mad plan. But it is also the only plan we've got,” he said grimly, staring at Gandalf. Balin frowned, but said nothing. “How would you propose we explain our trip to the hobbits, then, Gandalf? I doubt they would appreciate us intruding on their lives so that we may see if we are compatible.”

 

“And for that matter, where would you have us stay? A company of dwarves, camping in the middle of a strange town? Hardly the way to inspire loyalty from the hobbits,” added Balin, sounding rather grumpy. Gandalf smiled mysteriously through his cloud of smoke.

 

“I believe I may be able to answer both of your questions, quite simply, with a name.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a chill in the night air. Gandalf had been gone from Erebor for a few hours, and the sun had just dipped below the horizon. Balin was sitting uncomfortably in front of the fire in Thorin's chambers. Thorin, however, was pacing, and scowling darkly all around him. He had been doing so for a very long time indeed. Every few minutes, his eyes would dart back to the documents Gandalf had left behind. A couple of dusty pages noting the scant few times in the past when dwarves and hobbits had come into contact, and an illustration of Aulë and Yavanna, the divine protectors of dwarves and hobbits, gazing at each other with adoration. The knowledge that their creators were wed had obviously been intended to ease Thorin's mind, but it left a rather bitter taste in his mouth. Balin held the last document; a map. The map would lead them to the Shire. Balin would occasionally look down at it and sigh gloomily.

 

“It is madness,” grumbled Thorin, for what must have been the third time.

 

“Aye, lad, that it is,” replied Balin, rubbing his eyes. “The thought of weakening our race to such a degree simply...” he trailed off, shaking his head tiredly. Thorin frowned, and stomped over to the table to squint down at the illustration. After a long moment, he sighed.

 

“And yet, it is the choice Aulë made for himself.” He gingerly lifted the parchment, bringing it closer to the firelight. “What do you know of their union, Balin?” he asked after a moment.

 

“Very little, I confess. Aulë took Yavanna for himself, that much I knew. And Aulë created us as his children, as well you know. Yavanna is seen as the bringer of life, and the mother of all the earth provides us with. That the hobbits view her as their mother and protector is new to me. I confess, I had no idea of our connection with the halflings.” Thorin frowned. Then he shook his head and continued pacing.

 

“Madness, it is _madness_ ,” he repeated, still staring at the parchment. Balin only sighed in response. “If we were truly so- so _compatible_ with the hobbits, so incredibly similar to them, then why should it be that they are so lucky in fertility while we shrivel and die?” Thorin turned to the fire, scowling into the flames. Balin chuckled softly in his chair.

 

“Ah Thorin, always so full of thunder,” he muttered, shaking his head. Though after a moment, he frowned thoughtfully.

 

“Though it seems ridiculous to even mention it, I suppose it does make some sense that the hobbits multiply so successfully.” Thorin threw a dark look at the older dwarf, who simply shrugged. “If it is so that Yavanna protects and holds the hobbits, well! What is it that Yavanna does? She blesses the earth below our feet, so that crops may grow tall and hearty. She takes the simple dirt and fills it with life, so that we may have a good harvest. Aulë, however, he is one who forges. He takes what is simple, and he makes it strong. He carves us from the rock, and he hammers into us our strength, our honour. Perhaps that is why he chose her, Yavanna. After all, one who creates life must seem desirable to one who... Who...” he trailed off, stifling a yawn, and then sat back heavily, seemingly finished. Thorin stared into the flames, mind churning away.

 

“In that way, it makes sense that he chose her,” he said slowly, after some time had passed.

 

“Hm?”

 

“He chose Yavanna. He chose her. And it makes sense that he did so.” Balin slowly sat up in his chair as Thorin's words sunk in.

 

“Thorin, you cannot honestly be considering this,” Balin said, his face looking pale, but much more alert. Thorin turned to him, a strange glittering in his eyes. A look of hunger, of longing, and of fierce frustration. He crossed quickly to Balin, and sat across from him, eyes shining in the firelight.

 

“Balin, you are my oldest friend, and my most trusted advisor. I have yet to meet anyone half as wise as you. And so I ask you, is there any other way?”

 

Balin opened his mouth, frowning, as if to argue, but no words came out. He let out a long breath, suddenly looking much older.

 

“It is madness,” he said cheerlessly.

 

“Aye, it is,” replied Thorin. “But it is our only hope.”

 

* * *

 

The day started for Bilba Baggins the same way that her days often did. The sun rose red and hot in the sky, dancing behind fat, fluffy clouds. First and second breakfasts were made and eaten. At about half past ten in the morning, she toddled out into her garden to water the flowers and tend to the vegetables. Hamfast Gamgee, sweet young thing that he was, had dropped by earlier in the week with a honeysuckle vine from his mother. It was now planted firmly beneath one of Bilba's windows, and, with any luck, in a couple years time the whole of Bag End would be filled with its sweet scent.

 

The next little while was spent tidying up the kitchen, rearranging her pantry, checking how much space was left in her second pantry, doing a bit of dusting in her third pantry, beating the dust out of her spare blankets, removing each and every article of clothing from her drawers, and then refolding them carefully to make sure the pleats and creases were all crisp and pretty.

 

And then it was time for elevensies. Bilba sighed, and went off to chop up some tomatoes.

 

It often weighed heavily on her mind, how monotonous her life had become. It was not a bad life, in fact it was quite a decidedly comfortable! She had a beautiful home, a bit of money and status, and she came from a respectable family. Truly, it was an enviable life. And yet... Bilba grumbled to herself, popping a ripe tomato into her mouth.

 

'And yet, I've got few friends and little to do,' she thought grumpily. 'What I need is a hobby.' She snorted at the thought, staring around the room. An easel, untouched canvas and dried out paints were set by a window. A basket full of brightly coloured yarn and string was squatting dustily by her armchair. There was a box of playing cards on the table, next to her pipe. She had even brought one of her lovely little violet plants inside, to try her hand at some indoors gardening. The poor thing was now completely dried out and wilted. Bilba frowned, trying not to think too hard about how much it looked the way she felt. Every room in the smial had no less than three attempted hobbies, each impulsively chosen and quickly abandoned.

 

“No, no more hobbies for this hobbit,” Bilba muttered. “What I need is a...” she trailed off, gazing gloomily out her window. But she soon shook herself, and gave a great, irritated huff. Need? Well, she didn't _need_ anything! She had everything she needed. A life of comfort, what else could a hobbit lass need? She cleared her throat and scowled, then stomped over to her bookshelves, for what was certain to be a rather aggressive session of reading.

 

* * *

 

The golden sun sat squarely over Erebor, like a jewel atop a jagged crown, as Thorin and Balin came to meet their company. Thorin had decided that Dwalin, one of his oldest and most trusted friends and Balin's own brother, would accompany them to the Shire, and as a dwarf with a particularly keen nose for character, he had been enlisted to help select the rest of their crew. Thorin had been very clear about his intentions, and after a fierce hour convincing Dwalin of the necessity of their journey, Dwalin had agreed to assist. They had all come to the same conclusion, that for a mission such as this, merely gathering a handful of soldiers would not do. No, this was a quest for compatibility! A quest such as this required a wide range of dwarves. All different ages, upbringings, occupations.

 

Although, staring out at the strange assortment before him, Thorin did briefly wonder if an army wouldn't be easier.

 

Not that it was a bad collection, mind, just that it- Well, it was rather strange.

 

Chiefly, there was Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, and Thorin's own nephews, young Fili and Kili, heirs to the throne.

 

Then, there were the Ur brothers. Bifur, Bombur and Bofur. Bifur and Bofur were makers of fine toys, though Bifur was a bit mad, following a tragic accident attained in battle. He spoke only Khuzdul, the ancient language of the dwarves, and he was known to go through brief periods of derangement. Bombur was well recognized as one of the finest cooks in Erebor, not to mention one of the most ferocious eaters.

 

Joining the number were Oin and Gloin, two of the older dwarves. Gloin was in fact a happily married dwarf, with a wee lad of his own by the name of Gimli. His wife was one of the few unharmed by the dragon's attack, as she had been with child when Smaug had come, and as such had been held back from the fight. It came as some surprise to Thorin that Gloin had agreed to come along, but then, he was one of the few dwarves who could handle his brother, Oin. Oin was a notorious grump. He had a tendency to argue in great displays of dwarvish stubbornness, and when he felt he was not getting his way, he would pull a terrible stony face, brandish his ear trumpet, and exclaim that he couldn't hear anything or anybody. His behaviour was tolerated, however, because he was arguably the greatest medic to be found in all of Middle Earth.

 

The final three of the company were the brothers Ri. It was their selection which most puzzled Thorin. Dori, the eldest brother, was a sweet dwarf, who had a particular skill in selecting and brewing teas. He had amassed a goodly pile of gold for himself, selling his teas to no less than eight towns. Thorin rather suspected that Dwalin had a soft spot for master Dori, though any such accusations had been met with a frown and a growl, so he had learned to leave the warrior alone. Nori, however, was rather notorious in his own right, and not for any good reasons. Nori was a gambler, a scoundrel, and a thief. He had spent years abroad, making money from town to town and fleeing before the townspeople were able to get a really good look at him. He had returned home no more than a decade ago, and though he seemed to have seen the error of his ways, his reputation had made it difficult for him to integrate fully into society. The third and youngest brother was Ori. He was a shy, soft-spoken dwarf, younger even than Fili and Kili. He called himself a scribe to excuse his tendency to sit out with his nose in a book. Thorin could only imagine how much he would be slowed down by such a quiet fellow, but Dori was fiercely protective of the lad, and would not let him out of his sight.

 

Thorin frowned, contemplating his company. Dwalin had assured him that each dwarf was worthy of trust, and from the fierce dwarf, that truly was high praise. So, with a sigh and a shake of his head, the young King moved to stand before his company. A heavy silence fell over all.

 

“My friends and countrymen,” Thorin began. “I would like to begin by expressing my appreciation. Each of you has answered the call of your King, and for that you have my gratitude.” A few of the dwarves nodded, one or two seemed to puff up with pride. Thorin paused for a moment, looking around the group.

 

“It is my understanding that you have come here with little idea as to the purpose of our quest, and so, I will enlighten you. It is no secret that our future is an uncertain one. The attack on our home was sudden, and has left us with few capable of continuing our race. And so, to ensure our survival, I will lead a party far West of here to seek out women who will strengthen our number.”

 

At Thorin's words, the collected group seemed to freeze, one dwarf pausing as he fussed over the ends of his beard. Another went still in the middle of scratching an itch on his belly. The sudden tension was palpable. Thorin frowned, and shook his head.

 

“Aye, I share your doubts, your uncertainty. It will be a long, perilous journey, and should we succeed, our lives will be forever different. But, the hobbits are our clearest chance for survival. And if we do not act now, there is no doubt in my mind that we will all be lost.” The dwarves were all muttering now, muttering and frowning and nodding. When the murmuring had subsided, and their attention fell once again on their King, Thorin continued.

 

“You have each been chosen for this task because you represent the best of Erebor. You are the strong, the skilled, and the wise, and I believe that the hobbits will prove easy to use. However, if you don't believe in our mission, there will be no shame in turning back now. Are there any questions?” The dwarves shifted their weight, and a few of them looked a touch uncomfortable, but all held their place. Even little Ori, though his eyes had widened to the size of dinner plates. Fili and Kili were exchanging glances. Oin was scowling at nothing in particular, though to be fair, he did tend to scowl more often than not. Thorin was beginning to feel that perhaps this mission would go more smoothly than anticipated, when a hand shot up toward the back of the group. He watched with a small frown as Bofur stepped forward.

 

“Right, well, _I_ have a question,” he announced loudly. His brows were furrowed under his hat, and his chin had a defensive tilt. Thorin sighed.

 

“Yes, Bofur, what is your question?” Bofur gave a sharp little nod, which made his hat tip forward into his eyes.

 

“ _What_ in Durin's name is a ' _hobbit_?'”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, chapter two! I know it's been a bit of a stretch between chapters, but to be fair, I did spend most of this time moving, and dwelling far too much on how to write this. (Seriously. I spent two full days writing and rewriting Thorin's speech. Ugh.) So I really hope you like it! Please comment, let me know what you think, and thank you very much for being patient with me. :}

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an idea that I've been kicking around for a while, after it was suggested to me. I have no idea how long the story will be, or really where I'll go with it, but it feels like the right time to get started on it!
> 
> Please feel free to comment, let me know what you think of the premise? Thank you for stopping by! :}


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